


Unsound Structure

by Sapphirre98



Series: Until the Sun Comes Up [2]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Bad feelings, Closeted Relationship, Dissociation, Emotional self-harm, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Malnutrition, Maxwell has a guilt complex and is falling apart, Maxwell is unable to care for himself, Ostracism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempts, Tags will update with the story!!!, Trauma, Webber really is a good boy guys, Wilson is a Good Boy, dun dun DUNNN, emotional isolation, extreme self-loathing, fireside food, like rly fucjkin pure, suicide planning, talks, the survivors are in a group, underweight max, webber the Goodest Boy, worried Wilson, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphirre98/pseuds/Sapphirre98
Summary: When you can't stand up, you lean. And if you have nothing to lean on, you fall.





	1. Rusty Nails

It had been three solid weeks since Wilson had brought Maxwell back with him. Nobody at camp really wanted him around – he brought an uneasy energy with him that set everyone on edge. As much as he tried to adjust to it, it was not easy. In fact, it was getting progressively harder to hold himself together. It was as though he were carrying a heavy bag in his arms and was not allowed to place it down. His arms were beginning to give out, and there was nothing he could do about it but keep his struggles hidden. Nobody needed to know – nobody _cared._

Nobody had forgiven him either. 

It was for that reason that he hid his suffering so adamantly. It was only right. It was karma! It was the punishment for all he had done, the justification for his continued existence! The Throne had protected him from his conscience for so long, only now did the weight of his actions fall upon him. Well... Charlie, he had always ached over. Sweet, sweet Charlie... 

Sometimes...

Sometimes, it hurt. Badly enough that he would think about talking to Wilson. But then he would shut that thought away – stupid. Wilson could never understand. But sometimes he thought about it.

Today in particular, his chest felt heavy. Winter was coming; the breeze in the air had a chill in it, as though to warn him of something. Perhaps he should leave... No, no. No.

But still, the thought crept back to him. Through the orange and brown of the trees around him, darkness tinged his vision. If hounds – or anything, really – were to attack him in that moment, he would not have been prepared at all. Vague self-awareness flooded through him for a second, giving him just enough time to note that these zone-outs of his were becoming rather frequent as of late. Not that he had the capacity to pull himself out of it yet.

The rest of the group save the monster child and Wilson seemed to resent him for these episodes of blankness. Complaints that he was a freeloader were quite common, and they were right. He had no business denying it. While he did everything in his power to conceal it, the truth was that he was fairly incompetent when it came to basic survival. Just the other day Wilson had commented that he looked at least 20 pounds thinner than he used to be, and Maxwell had little doubt that his failure to keep himself fed was directly to blame for it. Nobody seemed very open to teaching him how to take care of himself, which left him with the sinking impression that, on some passive level, they wanted him dead.

He really was that horrible, wasn't he? Emotions – anger, hate, and several he could not identify – bubbled up from within. _What's the bloody point, then?_ Maxwell seethed to himself, vaguely aware of the clenching of his fists. _Why try at all, if all it does is rip new holes in my flesh? I can't keep bleeding forever!_

And just like that, it disappeared. His fists fell limp. He was hopeless – a lost cause. What in God's holy name did Wilson see in him? Did Wilson see any of him at all? Or was he invisible, seen only by himself and those that would do him harm? Claws, sharp and heavy, latched into his heart. Each beat trudged sluggishly, like draft animals with no desire to move the machine hooked onto them.

Why was he still here? Everyone would like him much better if he were-

“Hey, beaknose!” a shout yanked Maxwell back into reality. “What the ever-loving hell are you doing?”

He turned to the source of the yelling – to his right – and gazed tiredly over at the accusatory form of Willow. She liked it here, and yet she seemed to hate him more than anyone else. How did that even work?

She continued from across the clearing. “I thought you were out here chopping trees, not staring off into space. We need those logs, you know!”

Maxwell cringed. So that's what he was supposed to be doing...

“Well,” he began, masking his exhaustion. “If you need logs, chop them your damn self! I've got no obligation to do it for you lot.” He huffed in annoyance, though he already regretted it. God, why did he have to instigate?

Willow growled. “You're useless, you know that? I don't know why we let you stay here.”

Without another word, she stormed off in the direction of base. Maxwell sighed and rubbed his temples. The temper on that woman was maddeningly short. Well... at least she was honest. He didn't blame her for saying those things. He only put up with himself because he had to.

Feeling tired and ill, the tall dapper gentleman made his way deeper into the woods.

 

. . .

 

“Anybody seen Maxwell?” Wilson asked out loud, looking around next to the fire. The sun had just risen, and Maxwell was nowhere to be found. The scientist felt a pit of worry form in his stomach.

“We haven't seen mister Maxwell since yesterday, mister Wilson!” Webber, a young and polite spider child, piped up from the other side of the fire.

Wolfgang was in charge of breakfast this morning, and people were gathering around the fire as they emerged from their tents.

“What's this about?” Wickerbottom queried as she set down her book, apparently not having paid attention before. Willow, Wigfrid, and Woodie made their way towards them, each looking rather sleepy still.

Wilson voiced his concern. “I can't find Maxwell. He's not in his tent.”

“Who cares?” Willow cut in. “Maybe the old creep's gone somewhere to die, finally.”

Wilson shot a glare in Willow's direction. “I hope not, Willow... for your sake as much as his.”

She stopped walking, staring at Wilson with a puzzled expression on her face. 

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

Wilson squinted, suspicion bubbling up within him. “I'm saying that maybe you have something to do with his disappearance. When did you last see him?” 

Willow, hotheaded though she may be, seemed to ignore the accusation in Wilson's tone and crossed her arms, weight shifted entirely on her right leg.

“Last I saw him, he was staring off into space in the woods yesterday evening. He was _supposed_ to be chopping trees, but he wasn't.”

Wilson frowned. He'd have to go look for him. 'Staring off into space' was never a good thing with Maxwell, that much he'd learned from spending time with the old magician. The older man was very much distracted by something. Wilson didn't need any of that psychology stuff to know that much.

Getting up, Wilson made the split second executive decision to skip breakfast. Maxwell needed to be located as soon as possible. He headed over to his designated chest and grabbed some supplies. Tossing them into his backpack, he mentally checked everything that he may need. Healing supplies, flower crown, blowdarts, food... blanket? He needed a blanket. The why of this need did not register with him, but something told him that he had to bring one.

He ran to his tent to grab his special one, which he had sewn himself with the intention of giving to anyone who would need it. It had curious sanity-replenishing abilities of which Wilson had intended to study at some point, but never found the time to do so. Webber was a frequent user of it, and Wilson was highly accustomed to the young lad poking his head in his tent at night nervously asking to use the 'Comfort Blankie'. Wilson smiled at the thought as he stuffed the colorful bundle into his bag; he loved that child. Despite his dislike of spiders, Webber was a positive fixture in his life that he was overjoyed to have. His love of children overturned any disdain for the boy's physical attributes.

Satisfied with his mental checklist of supplies, he fastened his bag shut and darted out of his tent. A call from the elderly librarian stopped him momentarily from running straight into the forest.

“Mr. Higgsbury, where on earth are you in such a rush to go? Come and have breakfast first, at least!”

Wilson turned to look at the old woman, who was still sitting next to the morning fire with Webber. She was always a bit stern, which made it difficult for Wilson to disobey her when she gave 'orders.' This time, however, Wilson was far too anxious to wait and eat. He had to find Maxwell and make sure nothing serious had happened to him overnight. By now, others had gathered around the fire in preparation for the breakfast he would be missing.

The scientist shook his head. “I'm afraid not, Ma'am. I've got to go find Maxwell and make sure he's not been hurt.”

Without waiting for a reaction, Wilson turned and ran into the trees with haste.


	2. Rotting Floorboards

How long had it been, again? The sun had finally come up, allowing Maxwell his eyesight back – not that he was really using it before – and he felt a dizziness envelope him. What it meant, he hadn't the faintest idea. Was he hungry? Thirsty? Tired, maybe? None of it seemed to click in his clouded head. Perhaps he simply didn't care.

An urge to shift his aching body into a slightly more comfortable position drifted in and out of his conscience unacknowledged. Did the boulder he was leaning against hurt immensely? Yes. Very much so. But there was no energy left in him to do anything about it. A butterfly fluttered past his face unperturbed. What exactly had he been thinking about, again?

It was lost on him, and in his current state of mind he could not be sure if he had ever been thinking about anything in the first place. Such confusion happened often to him; losing a train of thought so horrendously badly that he was left with the possibility that he had no train of thought from the beginning, and that his mind was merely tricking him into thinking yet again that he had suddenly lost something that was not and had never been there from the beginning. Little could leave Maxwell in such distress as the knowledge that his own mind could con him better than he had ever been capable of doing. Though maybe it was all just as well.

A sudden cough wracked his lungs, forcing his body to move. His arms did so of their own accord; one pressing its hand into the sun-baked earth to hold him steady while the other flew up to his face to stifle the sound. A violent wave of exhaustion crushed him before he could take control of his limbs for himself. Moving was so... hard. He was so tired.

What was he even doing out here?

Had his body been actively attached to his mind, he would have snorted – that question didn't have an answer. He came out here merely to stay away from the other survivors, and perhaps, if he was lucky, die.

There it was again. Why was he so obsessed with dying lately? That word haunted his mind nonstop these days, hanging itself over him like a juicy morsel on a lure. He wanted to die, and there wasn't a day gone by where he didn't imagine himself finally ending his torture once and for all.

Birds twittered overhead. Why hadn't he done it yet? He'd be doing everyone a fa-

“Maxwell?” Leaves and twigs crunched towards him rapidly. Through the power of having been caught by another human being, he turned his head to see Wilson running at him. Wilson...

The voice kept talking, though Maxwell only heard some of it.

“...doing all the way out... worried! Why didn't you... hurt, Maxwell?”  
Hurt? Maxwell tilted his head back down to examine his arms – which didn't feel very attached at the moment – and became aware of several tears and nicks in the sleeves of his suit jacket. _Bother,_ he sighed inwardly. This was such a nice one, too. 

Wilson must have taken notice of where he was staring, because the scientist's hands entered his vision and lifted up one of his arm, probably to examine it.

“You have cuts all over your arms, Max. What in heavens did... did you do?” Was that worry in the scientist's voice? Maxwell wasn't sure. His mind was still far away somewhere.

At long last, his voice reconnected to the rest of him.

“I don't... remember, pre-” His voice broke. It sounded dry and misused, not unlike when he first tried to speak after so long on the-

Don't. Don't think about that.

The sensation of something touching his face sent his eyes – when had he even closed them? - flying open. Wilson had come closer and was looking him over with the most distressed expression he'd seen the man wear in a while. After a long moment Wilson grabbed Maxwell by the chin and smashed his lips onto his forehead.

“You're dehydrated, probably starving, most definitely showing signs of untreated injury... Blast it, why didn't you come back to camp? Just because Willow's got a rotten attitude does not mean I'm not perfectly happy to help you when you need it.”

Not giving Maxwell a chance to answer, Wilson turned around and reached into something – a backpack, most likely – and pulled out what appeared to be a colorful bundle of... oh.

“Here, you're cold,” he said, letting the blanket fall open and wrapping it around Maxwell manually. “this will help you retain body heat. Heaven knows how much of it you lost overnight, what with this cold weather setting in.”

Maxwell nodded his head slowly, only now becoming aware of the chill in his bones. Autumn nights were cold, and he had just spent one outside without any means of warmth aside his clothes. At the very least, he could be thankful that he had not noticed the temperature until now.

The blanket was nice, though his pride held him back from ever asking to use it. The soft colors combined with the ingenious combination of silk and beefalo wool helped to soothe his nerves just that little bit. Even if Wilson had designed it with himself in mind, like he knew the scientist usually did with all his prototypes, it certainly did have a positive effect on others as well.

Rustling from Wilson's bag grabbed Maxwell's attention once again. He watched as his partner produced a small bag of trail mix.

Maxwell's stomach flipped. “I- Wilson, I'm not certain I can-”

“You have to,” Wilson cut him off, sitting the bag on his lap. “I'm not giving you a choice. Who knows when or what you've last eaten?”

Maxwell grunted. The idea of eating anything formed knots in his abdomen. _Tough love,_ he thought to himself. Welp, might as well just do it.

The first mouthful almost didn't go down, his mouth was so dry and sticky. Wilson seemed to realize this and pulled out a flask from the backpack, from which Maxwell could not seem to stop drinking once he started. He never seemed to be aware of his body's needs until someone else started taking care of them for him. Poor Wilson, tending to an old fool like him. At least he was nice. The spider child was the only other survivor here that didn't openly hate him. What demons had prompted him to bring such an innocent young lad to this wretched place, anyway? He-

Stop. No more thinking.

The water in the flask rapidly disappeared, though well over half the trail mix remained uneaten. Wilson sat beside him against the boulder, head resting on the taller individual's shoulder affectionately. Odd, how that overtly compassionate little man could come show up and within the shortest amounts of time make everything feel so much better. Even if only for a short time, it was always nice.

The scientist shifted beside him.

“Hm... That'll have to do, I suppose.” Wilson said, referring to the half-eaten snack in Maxwell's lap. “Come on, We aught to go back to camp. I'd rather look at those scratches of yours in a nice warm tent than out here.”

Wilson got up, stretching his back and legs with a noise and then bending back down to return the flask and trail mix back into his bag. Maxwell watched as he fastened it shut, then stretched out his hand towards him as though to offer it.

Maxwell glanced at it dumbly, not really registering the meaning of the gesture. Impatient, Wilson remarked, “What, do you expect me to carry you? Come on, it's not that far.”

The joking tone did nothing to soften the blow of that remark. Maxwell tried his best not to flinch; even Wilson knew how useless he was. Finally he reached out to grab the outstretched hand and was pulled upward to his feet. They wobbled beneath him, numb and sore from hours of disuse. His free hand clung to the blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders, knuckles white.

Wilson had already begun walking, and a sudden irrational panic welled up in him that he was going to be left behind.

“Wilson!” He shouted, perhaps just a tad too loudly.

Wilson halted and turned, humming in acknowledgment.

“I'm not sure if- if I can keep up,” he took another shaky step forward, feeling his head spin at the sudden movements. “My legs don't seem to be working quite as they should at the moment...”

Wilson nodded, a gentle sparkle in his eyes. Before Maxwell really had a chance to readjust his stance Wilson was right by his side, arm wrapped around his back in extra support. Maxwell smiled a little.

“I was really worried about you, ya know,” Wilson said as they began walking back. “If there's something troubling you, you can always come talk to me. Or- I don't know, leave me a note? I don't even care, just- anything at all. Anything would be better than running off.”

His voice grew quiet. Maxwell could not see his expression from his angle, for Wilson had turned his head downwards toward the ground. “I care about you. If something happened to you, well... I'd be bloody devastated! You know that, Max?”

Maxwell hummed in response. So it was _care_ , huh? Not love? Perhaps he was reading too far into things. He'd always had a tendency to over-think, after all.

“...I wish you'd just talk to me,” The scientist mumbled.

_If only I could._


	3. Cracked Tiles

Flames flickered in front of Maxwell. They had reached Camp close to noon, met by stares of surprise and mild distaste upon their arrival. Maxwell felt incredible discomfort being out in the open, in this current state of his. The Comfort Blanket draped over him in plain view, Wilson's arm around him, his unsure steps forward and terrible posture – all of it sent him whirling down a pit of embarrassment and shame. Wilson couldn't know... It wasn't his fault, after all. But when the scientist told Maxwell to sit out and wait for him by the fire, he couldn't help but feel betrayed.

Webber skipped up to him happily, looking at his arms and then up to meet his eyes.

“Mister Maxwell, are you okay?” His big, spidery eyes seemed to get larger. Maxwell forced a smile.

“Of course, young lad. Just a few scratches here and there, nothing serious!” he patted Webber on the head, earning a big fanged smile from the boy.

“We're glad, mister Maxwell!” Webber glowed, then ran off.

Maxwell had grown to like that kid. He was always bright and cheery even when the rest of camp was upset over something. A hand on his shoulder startled him.

“A-ah-! Wilson?”

“Oh, sorry! I want to look at those scratches in the light, so I had to get the lantern set up. Come on.”

Maxwell followed his boyfriend into the tent. A lantern hung from a rope which used a bar up top as leverage to hold it up; simple, yet effective. He stood in the middle awkwardly, waiting for Wilson to further instruct him.

Wilson, waiting as Maxwell hobbled his way inside, bent down and pulled a salve out of the bag he'd taken out into the woods with him earlier.

“Alright... I need you to take off both your jacket and the shirt under it.”

Wilson didn't watch, instead staring at the fabric of the tent wall while the rustling and sliding of Maxwell's clothing reverberated through the space.

“Alright,” Maxwell said from behind him. “I'm ready.”

Wilson turned around and approached him, grimacing at the figure before him. God... when did this happen? Almost every bone in Maxwell's torso was painfully prominent, reminding Wilson of the dead animal specimens he used to collect from the woods surrounding his house years and years ago. Except, Maxwell is alive. Those animals were not. He shook his head. Focus – got to focus. He could worry about Max's weight afterwards.

Gingerly he lifted Max's arm into the light and examined it carefully. The scratches looked similar to what he was used to treating whenever someone got stupid and tried to strip twigs off of those spiked bushes in the swamps. But Maxwell hadn't been in the swamps, and he certainly didn't have any twigs with him. Some of the scratches were deep, crusted blood covering the outside of them. Others were fairly superficial. Wilson covered the more severe ones with salve and then bandaged the entire arm with a gentle but strong silk cloth. He repeated the process for the other arm and then turned his attention to Maxwell's... er... weight problem. 

“Maxwell,” Wilson began, unsure of what tone to use for this situation. “you keep losing weight...”

Maxwell hummed above him.

He continued, feeling along the taller man's side. “I knew you weren't eating very well, but... This is getting out of hand. You look like a corpse.”

It scared him, seeing how bad Max was getting. It was always beyond difficult forcing him to eat, but now it looked like he didn't have a choice. It was either use force, or let his partner die of malnutrition.

Above him, Maxwell whispered quietly, “I know.”

. . .

For the first time in what felt like forever, Maxwell had an actual meal in his hands. Wilson had forced him to join everyone for dinner, on the condition that he and the spider child sit on either side of him. As promised, Wilson and Webber sat beside him, though Wilson looked incredibly uncomfortable... and distressed. In his current state, he could not bring himself to care; he was busy thinking as he ate.

He had to come up with a plan. How – how would he do it? He needed to make it so that Wilson still had a hope that he was alive somewhere. It was too much, to die in front of him. He couldn't bear to put him through so much pain. No, he had to plan this carefully. 

He chewed on his fish sticks absently. Everyone had one meat effigy to their name, he'd learned this when Wilson helped him gather the resources to build his own alongside everyone else's. Perhaps...

Perhaps he could destroy his.

And then, if questioned, he could simply lie. He could tell them he rebuilt it somewhere else, far away from camp. The fire crackled in front of him, seeming to know his thoughts. The only problem will be Wilson; he would know better than to believe in such fake hubris. He'd have to convince him somehow... or just do what he did best; be a stubborn ass about it. That was one quality of his he could always fall back on.

Yes... This plan showed promise. He'd have to get started soon – tomorrow at the latest. The pain was growing harder and harder to deal with. He couldn't stay. He glanced over at Wilson to his left, who looked away upon eye contact. As much as he wanted to, he simply could not. The pang in his heart throbbed; he'd be hurting Wilson. The two of them had grown close the past three weeks, and he had undeniably developed more... complex feelings. Perhaps love was one of them. It was love that was the driving factor in his need to plan this whole thing out; otherwise, he'd just slit his own throat and call it a night.

He heard voices from all around the fire. People were finishing their meals and had begun to converse with one another. A chill in the air was beginning to take over as the sun set. Life here... ugh. He felt a hand grab him by the upper arm and pull him away from the firepit.

Worry flooded through Wilson still. Maxwell had finished his meal, which was good, but the whole time he had had the... strangest expression on his face. One that had frightened him. And he had gotten caught staring, too. After dinner was over, Wilson had been unable to shake the feeling that something bigger was happening in his boyfriend's head. Something bad.

He needed to sleep, he had figured tiredly. Paranoia may be partially the issue here, which could be fixed by a night's rest. He hadn't wanted to leave Max alone, however, so he ended up dragging the tall mess of a man wordlessly to their tent, and then undressed in preparation for bed. 

Now, he lay on top of Maxwell, his head resting on his significant other's bare chest. His heartbeat filled Wilson's ears, body rising and falling with the rhythm of his breathing. Wilson lay awake, eyes wide with terror.

_Something's wrong._


	4. Crumbling Foundation

Wilson stared at Wickerbottom in dismay. He'd been trying to convince her to let him skip his out-of-camp obligations today, solely to look after Maxwell and ensure that the older man took proper care of himself. However, she would have none of it.

“Higgsbury, you must go. Maxwell can take care of himself for a day without you.”

“But-”

“No buts, dear.” Wickerbottom waved a finger at him sternly. “If it makes you feel more secure, though, I can tell everyone staying in camp today to keep an eye on him for you.”

Sighing in defeat, Wilson gave up. The thought of leaving Max alone with anyone other than himself sent a pit forming in his stomach, however it was still better than leaving him completely unattended. Somehow, something was horribly wrong. The feeling hadn't gone away overnight, and it was just... uncanny. Feeling uneasy was something Wilson was normally used to, but this time it was nigh unbearable.

He kicked a rock from its spot beside his feet. “Very well. I'd like to at least talk to him before I head out, though.”

The librarian nodded, likely feeling the anxiety radiating off of him. Without another word he jogged over to his tent, where Maxwell still slept.

When he lifted the flap, he was surprised to find Maxwell already awake. The former shadow king sat hunched over the Codex, though the pages remained stationary. His face was blank, not really reading or even seeing anything. That look... it was all too familiar.

“Hey,” Wilson kept his voice soft and tender. “You okay?”

Maxwell blinked and silently closed the Codex, setting it aside with quiet movements. He nodded as Wilson stepped inside and let the tent close itself.

The air between them was still and... emotionless. Almost unreal. Though words needed to be spoken, he found himself almost unwilling to break such a surreal silence. The experience was surely to leave him reeling later.

He sat down next to Max, letting his gaze settle on the white silk bandages around the other's arms.

The longer the silence continued, the more comfortable it felt. But Wilson didn't have the time to sit and do nothing.

“Max...” He began, not entirely certain how to say what was on his mind.

Maxwell turned and looked at him expectantly. His face showed no discernible emotion.

“I know... That you've been upset, the past few weeks. It's getting really bad, and I- I don't... I don't want to just sit here, when something is wrong like this. I need you to talk to me, but now isn't the time. I just...”

He reached out and cupped Max's face with one hand. For a brief moment, Wilson made eye contact with him, hoping that this rare gesture would help emphasize what he was saying.

“Promise me that you won't do anything to hurt yourself while I'm gone.”

Maxwell remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Each fraction of a second that passed floated by in the river of time in slow motion, until he finally responded,

“I promise.”

. . .

This was it.

Wilson was out of camp for today, after that terrible talk earlier. Virtually nobody was still in camp without something to keep them occupied, leaving Maxwell with the golden opportunity to carry out the first step of his plan. Approaching the effigy, hammer in hand, his steps felt almost automatic, as though he were made of clockwork and machinery like that WX fellow instead of flesh and bone. The thoughts – the ones that held the crumbling infrastructure of his mind captive – spurred him onward.

_I want to die._

Again.

_I want to die._

He stopped in front of the effigy. The wooden structure glared back at him, as though it disapproved of everything Maxwell was about to do. His name, in all its disgusting, egotistical glory, remained roughly carved into the jagged casing. It displayed about as much dignity as an aging, depressed failure of a man such as himself could express in person.

 _“Want”?_ His arms trembled from the weight of his weapon, as did his hands. Stress turned each knuckle white. _Come on, buddy, pal, chum... You know better. This isn't about what you want anymore, Carter. This is about what you NEED._

Maxwell heaved and swung. The sound of the hammer striking the effigy sent several heads looking in his direction, and upon the general realization of what it appeared he was doing, panic and outrage spread among them. A shout informed Maxwell that he had been discovered.

“Hey! What do you think you're doing?!”

“I knew it, I knew it- He's up to no good!”

His heart sank. They had no idea. They well and truly had not a clue what he was doing. Perhaps that was for the best. Maxwell wiped his brow and tried to ignore the ruckus behind him. If he could just get one more swing-

Someone grabbed him suddenly, arms around his neck in a choke-hold. Maxwell let out a terrified yelp as he was pulled backwards – away from the effigies. His hammer, all but forgotten, lay in the grass beside his own.

A voice growled behind his ear. “Buddy, you got some explainin' to do.”

Woodie, the lumberjack. Figures, with how strong the pull was. Maxwell didn't fight the grip, but instead merely sighed and weighed his current options. He hadn't banked on being discovered so quickly. In fact, he had purposely waited till the time of day most everyone was busy doing something. Why had this gone wrong already? Heart racing despite himself, he fought to think of something – the lie. Yes, the lie! They – Woody especially, and Willow too - would easily fall for such a snotty fib. 

Max had to admit, though; being at the mercy of a 5 foot 9 Canadian lumberjack was... terrifying, for lack of a better word. Sweat practically boiled through his skin, causing his clothes to stick to his body uncomfortably. Woodie's grip tightening around his neck promptly dragged him back to the situation at hand.

Max summoned his inner actor, stepping in for him to take over the roll. Lips wide with a disgusting smile, Maxwell snorted. “What's there to explain, pal? Check the name, see for yourself. I thought a little relocation would be in order.”

His captor jerked him shortly, clearly irritated by the explanation. “And what do ya mean by that, mister-”

“Hold on...” Came a confounded call from Willow. She stood beside Wendy in front of the effigy, both gals examining it. “This is so weird.”

Wendy, without turning to face him, addressed Woody in her grave manner. “Release him, for he's done no wrong. It appears he and I both long for the grave.”

“Huh?” Woodie pushed Maxwell aside on his way to see the effigy for himself, causing him to fall unceremoniously to the ground. Damn it, Wendy – she was closer to the truth than he'd like her to be. Luckily, people typically didn't pay her morbid comments any mind.

Maxwell sat up and watched as Woodie and Willow exchanged looks of disbelief.

“Well?” Maxwell prodded smugly, crossing his arms. “What did I tell you?”

He wasn't getting held at axe-point anymore, so things seemed to be going smoothly in his book. Just a little longer with this ploy, and he'd be one step closer to his goal.

The firestarter stared back at him, dumbfounded. “That just... doesn't make any sense.”

“Yeah,” Woodie added. “even if you were gonna build another one somewhere else, why destroy this one? Two effigies are always better than one.”

Shit. That was... a good point, actually. Whatever. Maxwell didn't hesitate to bluff through this obvious logic.

“Hmf. As if I'd want this place to be where I wake up. I'm sure you feel the same.”

Woodie shrugged and walked off. Willow followed, throwing her two cents over her shoulder as she passed. “Fine, if that's how it is with you. We don't want your ugly rat-face around here, either!”

He did it. Without standing around on ceremony, he rushed back to Wilson's tent to be alone. He'd done it. The plan was in motion! Black tendrils of guilt began creeping into his chest. He'd broken his promise to Wilson. Was he really doing the right thing? Something about taking his own life behind his partner's back like this didn't really feel right. He shook his head, trying to clear the doubts from it. Of course he was doing the right thing! Nobody in this hell-camp wanted him here beside Wilson, and even he really didn't have any reason to want him to stay. None that warranted putting everyone else through the experience of living with him, that is.

A yawn suddenly overtook him. It... It was barely past noon! Being tired at this time was... unacceptable! But his eyes, his brain, and his limbs all seemed to disagree with that notion. Perhaps a little nap wouldn't hurt.

Laying down, Maxwell relaxed into the grip of exhaustion, and oblivion took him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated on whether or not to continue the chapter past this point, but I'm tired and this isn't too bad of a spot to stop lol. I also might extend the chapter count to 6, but that depends on how the next one progresses. yEET


	5. Caving Roof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself.  
> Also, the suicide attempt is in this chapter. Y'all have been warned.

It had been a long, grueling day of patrolling the area around camp for threats, particularly tallbird nests. They'd found jack-all, thankfully, but the hours of walking made his body sore nonetheless. As he approached the fire, he was stopped by Willow.

“Hey, you know Wickerbottom told us to keep an eye on Beakface today?”

She looked strangely neutral, despite her use of name-calling. Wilson nodded for her to continue, the intense worry from earlier flooding back into his mind.

“Well... He did something kinda weird while you were gone. He destroyed his effigy.”

He suddenly felt very cold and very sick. “What..?”

“Yeah. I think he's up to something.” Willow shifted her weight onto her left leg, hand on her hip. “You might wanna go talk to him. He's probably losing it.”

Not wasting time, Wilson began looking wildly around for Max. He needed to talk to him as soon as he could- no, scratch that. He needed to talk to him _now._

Luckily, he didn't have to look far.

Max stood about 20 feet or so in front of the tree-line, looking rather sadly at him. Wilson's heart sank at the sight of him. He ran over to him, full of questions and confusion. And anxiety.

“Max...? Why did you destroy your effigy?”

Maxwell didn't meet his eyes. “I've made a new camp, far away from here with one of its own. I'm heading off to live there.”

“But why? How come... When?! Since when did you-”

“Just today. I'm leaving, Wilson.”

Maxwell summoned his shadow sword. Fear struck Wilson's heart at the sight of it. Then he did something even more upsetting than what he was expecting; he brought the blade up to his own neck and held it there.

“What are you doing, Maxwell?!”

Max's eyes glinted dangerously. Everything about this situation felt like an unorthodox threat.

“I'm leaving. What does it look like?”

“What do you mean, 'leaving'? What-” Then, realization stuck him. His mouth fell open.

So Max was going to kill himself in order to be transported to his supposed new camp? In the _middle of this one?_ Wilson knew he was doing poorly lately, but...What the fuck, Max?

“Whats the point?” Wilson's eyes were brimming with moisture, distorting the unprocessable image before him. “Why... Why can't-”

For a moment, it looked like Maxwell had lowered his sword slightly.

His voice cracked horribly, though at this stage he didn't care. “Can't you just... walk there? Why are... Why are you doing this when you can just... WALK?!”

His cries were met with an indignant snort. “Walk? Oh no- this camp is _miles_ away. I'm not walking all the way there just for you to follow me.”

Despair began taking hold, encompassing everything until – wait. Wait, wait wait. Something...

“Trust me, Wilson... it- it's for the best, that I-” Maxwell took a breath. “That I do this.”

Something doesn't sound right.

“Wait.” The gears in his mind were turning now, distracting him somewhat from the upsetting nature of this situation so that he could think. “The camp can't be miles away, Max. You haven't... you haven't been out of camp long enough to get that far and back today! 

“Unless someone-” he turned and scanned the crowd of people – it looked like the entire group - that had gathered, all looking horrified and confused and distressed though Wilson hadn't the spare attention to notice or care. “-lied to me, you haven't got a camp anywhere. Anywhere you could have gone in the time spans where you weren't seen by anyone, I would have covered when I was out patrolling today!”

Maxwell's previous fake self-assuredness had melted into unmasked panic; the face of a child caught in the act.

“You haven't got a camp, do you Maxwell?”

No answer. Wet trails gleamed off of Maxwell's face; there was no place to hide now.

Voices broke out behind him; whispers holding questions and gossip which would remain forever unknown to him. Right now, all that mattered was the man in front of him.

Wilson didn't stop. “You promised, Max. You promised me, that you wouldn't-” tears returned upon the betrayal he was faced with. Maxwell had lied _directly to his face._ He didn't want to believe it, but the facts told him otherwise – facts don't lie. But men... men do lie. Some more than others.

“I'm sorry...”

Wilson glared up at him through bleeding eyes. How could he do this, after everything? What fucking idiot would think that suicide was an acceptable answer to anything? _What's-_

“-wrong with you?!”

Oh... oh fuck. Oh God. Hands – his own – found their way to his mouth, covering it as though to deny having said anything. This...

This was not the time to be angry.

Mouth clenched painfully in silent wailing, brow furrowed, eyes wide and fearful; Maxwell's face betrayed his world crumbling out from underneath him. He radiated so much pain, and yet surely it was only a fraction of what he held inside. Never had a man ever looked so hopeless.

A sniffle erupted from Maxwell's nose, yanking Wilson's rage back within the heartbeat. The irrationality of the feelings was irrelevant to Wilson's badly-wired brain, and despite all possible efforts and previous coaching he found his imagination conjuring up fantasies of harm and violence inflicted upon Maxwell. Wilson tried his best to stop, shoving away the intense emotional reaction with all his willpower. _Not... now... I can't deal with this now. Suck it up, Wilson – you can do it! Anger will only escalate things and I need to defuse them, not make them worse!_

_Why, oh why did you have to make this so difficult for me, Maxwell?_

If he had been imagining this scenario rather than living it out in real time, Wilson would have rather died than have to deal with this. The agony was unbearable, both emotionally and psychologically. But reality was never what one thinks it to be, and so here he was.

Trembling, Wilson took a step towards him.

“Maxwell... Please drop the weapon.”

Maxwell responded by raising the blade even closer to his throat.

Wilson forced himself to ignore the gesture and took another, smaller step forward.

“I'm serious, Max. We have to talk about this. Why do you want to kill yourself?”

An audible sob escaped from the magician's throat. He opened his mouth in a choking reply, “I can't. I can't tell you, I-”

“Why not?” Wilson cut in, keeping his voice as calm as possible. “What is it you can't tell me?”

Almost. Just one more step and he could do it easily.

Maxwell started to answer, his shadowy cutlass still pressed against his neck.

“It hurts so much, I just-”

Wilson launched himself onto him, swiftly yanking the weapon from his grip and sending it flying off somewhere away from the two. They both hit the ground with a thud. Maxwell instantly began struggling blindly in an attempt to break free. Wilson kept all of his weight on Max, holding the writhing man down easily. He was far too weak to escape him.

“Max-! We have... to talk!” Wilson grit his teeth as he held his partner down.

“No!” Maxwell clawed at Wilson desperately, trying to force his way free. Fear radiated off him so thickly Wilson could _smell_ it. “Just let me do the right thing! Please-! Please, just let me do this for you-”

Maxwell twisted onto his belly and reached out for his sword – a gesture of determination. Wilson's heart raced; the blood pounding through his ears stole precious attention away. Reaching over and grabbing Max's arm, he shouted, “What do you mean, 'right thing'? You think any of us _want_ you to kill yourself like this?!”

“Yes!” came the shout back. “Nobody wants me here- can you blame them?”

Wilson froze in shock. Maxwell took the opportunity to escape and crawled out from underneath him, disheveled and dirty. Neither of them paid any mind to the speechless crowd beside them.

“I'm just trying to do the right thing- that's all! Nobody wants me here... I can't just stay, after everything I did-!”

“Maxwell,” Wilson cut in, trying desperately to keep his voice calm. “If you kill yourself, you'll only wake up somewhere, alone. Is that what you want? To be alone?”

“No,” Maxwell's eyes were dull, the fire in them gone entirely. “But it's what I deserve.”

Maxwell turned to look at the crowd, surveying the looks on everyone's faces. Shame welled up from within – they weren't supposed to see this. He met Webber's eyes; windows to another dimension, filled with child-like horror. The windows begged him – they begged him not to do it. They feared for his life, which he had so desperately chosen to throw away.

Why couldn't they see? Why didn't anyone understand that he was trying to do something good for them? That he must do this? But still, shame seeped through the cracks in the walls he'd built, attacking him from inside out. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was running for the trees. He heard Wilson shout after him from behind, but he did not stop for him.

He had nowhere to go, but he ran anyway. The darkness of the trees would have to have him, until the end came at long, overdue last. It was where he belonged, even if they didn't want him, either. He didn't blame them for it.

Neither Max nor Wilson heard Wickerbottom shout Webber's name as the young boy sprinted into the forest after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have extended the chapter count to 6, because I'm an asshole and also because I wanted to get another chapter out asap. Thank you for being patient with me; life likes to get in the way of writing. I hope this was worth the wait!


	6. Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maximum dunk has arrived, courtesy of me. Enjoy.

Webber ran. They ran like they were being chased by a hound. Maxwell had looked at them, before he had ran into the trees, with Wilson at his heels. He had looked at them with his sad, miserable eyes. 'Nobody wants me here,' he had said. Webber blinked tears out of his numerous eyes. _He's wrong,_ they thought to themselves. _We want him here._ In all the time mister Maxwell had spent in camp with the group, Webber never once thought he was bad. They had understood that on some level, this Maxwell was a different one from the man who tricked them and brought them here. He had changed. He didn't deserve to be alone.

“Maxwell!” The hybrid called out into the trees ahead of them. Something felt wrong about addressing someone without the proper honorifics. Wickerbottom would be displeased to hear them right now. But that didn't matter much.

What mattered was finding mister Maxwell and mister Wilson before anything bad could happen.

Five minutes of non-stop running passed before Webber needed to catch their breath. Trees loomed ominously around them, casting shadows over the forest floor in patterns. Webber clutched their heaving chest and, blinking back tears, allowed their wobbling legs to collapse out from underneath them. The dirty ground felt comfortable, inviting them to abandon mister Maxwell and mister Wilson and instead watch the puppet show at their feet. 

But the urgency was too strong to fall to the waving patterns. Stinging cold ripped through Webber's lungs and the energy sapped away from their small body, urging them to stay stationary just a bit longer even though they didn't want to. They wanted to catch up and help. 

They needed to show mister Maxwell that they wanted him to stay.

Thoughts of the sword still flashed through their head as they panted in the dirt. Not even the deerclops was so intensely frightning as what they just saw. Brave as the child was, no previous life experience had prepared them for the phenomena that was suicide; it confused and scared them so much... that someone could feel _so bad_ that they decide they should hurt themselves. Nobody deserved to feel that bad. Not to Webber. That was too much feeling bad for one person.

Webber wiped their furry face and let out a shaky exhale. _We already forgave him, but he thinks he should die because everybody else hates him._

That vein of thought made them grind their fangs together with disdain. Bullying was never okay. That's what mum told him, and they'd believe it till the day they stop waking up. The things Webber had witnessed people say and do to mister Maxwell were awful. Miss Willow was the worst. She was always so _mean,_ and Webber never understood how someone could be that angry and cruel. Of course, she most definitely hasn't forgiven mister Maxwell, so maybe that was why she hated him so much? Most of everybody, Webber realized, likely haven't forgiven him yet. Suddenly, the bitterness hanging over camp made a lot more sense. But still...

To go as far as to believe someone should be dead? _Even mister Maxwell doesn't deserve that. Nobody's better off dead._

Webber furrowed their brow.

That's it. With resolve, they pushed themself off the ground. Sunlight, dappled and fading through the trees, danced around the fur-covered hybrid. They resumed their trek through the forest in search of men in need, and neither hell nor high water was going to stop them this time.

. . .

Daylight had begun to fade when Wilson finally caught up to the renegade man. A crashing thud led him towards a small clearing, not far from the start of the swampland that engulfed part of the camp's nearby territory. 

Wilson slowed down to a walking pace. He sensed that the chase was over, and his sense of urgency faded into the trees behind him. Peering out from behind a dying pine, his eyes landed on a crumpled, dirty suit. Maxwell lay on his side, back facing towards him. Alarm bells rang in his head. He could only assume that he had fallen while running, and the landing is what he had heard. Did he trip? Is he hurt?

Pine needles crunched underfoot as he stepped out from behind the tree and made his approach.

“Maxwell?”

“No.” Came an immediate answer. Wilson sighed in relief at the defiant tone of voice. It meant to him that Maxwell wasn't seriously hurt.

Which was good, because camp was currently too far away for either of them to go back to in case of a medical emergency.

Wilson stopped and stood over Maxwell's laying form. His face appeared to be very clammy and flushed, very much resembling his appearance back at the pond where he had an attack of sorts weeks ago. Wilson knew what that appearance was, now; he looked sick. Judging from the events that transpired today... maybe he was.

Sighing, he kneeled down into the dirt, dreading what he knew he needed to do now. Chasing him down was the easy part. Now, it was time for the hard part; talking.

“Look,” he began wearily. “I get it. Life's been hard on you. But you made a promise to me that you wouldn't hurt yourself.”

Maxwell flinched. He adjusted his tone of voice to avoid sounding angry. Maybe that was lying, since he was actually kind of angry, but like any adjusted man he knew that being angry would not aid him here.

“Why did you break it today?”

Silence reigned over for a brief moment as Maxwell seemed to think over what to say. The side profile of his face suggested that he was boiling over. He braced himself for hell right as a cracked voice pierced the air.

“You have _no idea_ how much this hurts,” he growled at the trees ahead of him. “or how much I hate myself.”

“I don't. Because you never told me.”

A charged exhale left Max's lungs. Wilson continued. “You need to talk to me. Why do you hate yourself?”

“What's it to you?!” Maxwell snapped, suddenly sitting upright and getting in the others' face. Wilson couldn't help but jump backwards onto his ass. He met Max's glare with cautious eyes. Bitterness seeped through into his heart.

“You need help and quite frankly, I don't give a damn how much you don't want it. You are suffering and I'm not going to sit back on my ass and let you do this to yourself!” Wilson's voice rose slightly towards the end of his sentence, but he didn't care to police himself. He meant it and was not afraid to show that fact. Maxwell was a stubborn son of a bitch, and there were some things that needed to be knocked into that thick skull of his regardless of tact.

Maxwell retaliated. “Well, you should! I'd be better off alone, and so would you.”

 _You're an idiot,_ Wilson thought, feeling his anger push through the barricade he'd built. “You'd starve without me, and you know it! You're pretty much starving anyway, because you won't eat!”

“No, I-” Max stuttered. His mood seemed to shift to panicky confusion. “I don't mean that, I-”

“What do you mean, then? I've been asking you for days, 'what's wrong?' and not once have you ever told me anything! I need to know what's going on with you so I can help you move forward.”

“I-” He started, then stopped suddenly. The dust between them began to settle, allowing their mood to do the same. Wilson's anger melted in the silence.

Moments later, Maxwell's tears returned. His eyes glittered with moisture, and his frame sagged. What a pitiful sight, this decrepit old man was.

“I'm so sorry, Higgsbury,” came the hoarse voice. “Everyone seemed so- so unwelcoming, and- and I'm terribly bad, I did so many terrible things- I can't- I can't deal with it anymore. I can't do it!”

“Shhhhhhhh,” Wilson scooted forward and placed a hand on Maxwell's wet face. “It's okay, I think I get it.”

Guilt. Thinking back, it seemed so obvious that Maxwell would feel guilty. But before now it just felt out of character. Perhaps Wilson's understanding of who Maxwell was as a person was wrong.

“I thought- I-” Max sputtered. “I thought they- you- would like it better if I was...”

Wilson shushed him and shook his head.

“Maxwell... I know I can't speak for anyone else but me, but... You honestly thought I wanted you gone, but I don't. I'm not like that. I don't want that for you. You might not see it, but... You're changing. You are not the same man that sat on that throne, and you sure as hell aren't the same man that tricked me over my radio. And I'm not going to hold grudges against someone who is clearly learning, and growing, and- and changing! You're human, and you deserve better than that.”

Max stared at the ground, expression sagging. He was clearly listening, but he wouldn't meet Wilson's gaze.

“What I'm trying to say is, I forgive you. And now, it's time to work on you forgiving yourself.”

Maxwell scrunched his face – a look of displeasure. “I don't want to forgive myself. I want to make it up to them,, I- I need to prove-”

“You don't need to prove a thing,” Wilson interrupted. “The goal isn't punishment. If it was, you'd have been absolved of all this ten times over by now. You've suffered enough.”

A whine sounded from the others' throat. Obviously he didn't agree. But Wilson felt determined to change that – in time, that is.

“Now it's time to heal. Even if you don't think you deserve it.”

Wilson scooted even closer, bringing his body to rest right against Maxwell's. The other didn't argue; rather, he leaned into the contact. They both curled into each other, finding comfort in the physical closeness. The darkness wrapped itself around them like a blanket, hiding their sorrow from the rest of the world.

Wilson looked up at his love, and leaned close. There were no more words for what his heart felt. Only actions. Their lips connected briefly, enough to spark embers in his soul. Mere seconds passed, and Wilson's throat constricted in a choking sob. Tears blinded him aggressively. Arms surrounded him and he surrendered to their comforting embrace. Both men cried, shrouded in the night amongst the trees.

. . .

Webber was lost. Night had fallen and they had no idea where they were. Nonetheless, they did not stop walking. Rustling of foliage alerted them to movement ahead of them. Webber stopped.

“Hello?” They called tentatively.

Two huddling figures emerged, side by side. One was Wilson, the other Maxwell.

“Oh, Webber-!” Wilson exclaimed with a cracked voice. He sounded like he hadn't yet recovered from a bout of crying. “Everything's okay- it's all gonna be okay.”

“Mister Wilson!” Webber cried, running towards the two men. They hugged them both, clinging tightly and fighting back tears.

For the time being, everything was okay. And together they made their way home.


End file.
